If his famous doughnuts are the reason you’re following Enoch Simpson to his new Roscoe Village restaurant, Endgrain, you’re doing it wrong. The correct thing is to follow him for his biscuits, about which no adjective, no intensifier, no fucking superlative could possibly suffice. Does it mean anything, any longer, to commend a biscuit as “light”? Fucking “fluffy“? Meh. This has to be tasted to be believed.
So is a smoked-fish sandwich at brunch, nominally dressed with slaw and tomato remoulade as well as Gruyere. I was able to visually confirm the slaw was there, but there was no kick to it, no freshness, and no bite—and nothing to offset the powerful saltiness of the proteins and the biscuit. (That biscuit, though. Boy oh boy.)
This corner space, formerly home to the late, lamented Terragusto, is airy and lovely, if a bit textbook-New-American. It could share an interior decorator with, say, Billy Sunday. In both aesthetics and ethos, really, Endgrain is pretty similar to a lot of north-side restaurants. The biscuits are a hell of a start, but it’ll need to do more to distinguish itself.
1851 W. Addison 773-687-8191endgrainrestaurant.com
